


I can help you change your life

by bauble



Series: The Foundation [1]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-26
Updated: 2017-05-26
Packaged: 2018-11-05 02:57:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11004525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bauble/pseuds/bauble
Summary: AU in which Eames is a con man on the make. Arthur is a world-renowned hypnotist and his newest target. When they meet, Arthur begins to change Eames' life.





	I can help you change your life

Eames would have expected a world-renowned hypnotist to be remarkable.

But he's plain, almost mousy, with brown hair and an unassuming manner. Though Eames' opinion is the distinct minority if the starry-eyed way others react to Arthur is to be believed.

Regardless, Eames didn't pull every string he had (nor bribe, forge three passports and burgle) in order to evaluate whether he likes Arthur on a personal level. He's worked his way to Arthur's usual grocery store in order to study him, learn if there's anything to his techniques besides superstitious bullshit, and possibly offer him a business proposition if he seems open to it.

Eames engineers the collision between their shopping carts and feigns adequate surprise. Conversation flows easily enough, especially when Arthur gives him a full once over (unsurprising, but Arthur's hopes will have to die in vain on that front). 

Eames is prepared to say his goodbyes now that he's laid the groundwork for their acquaintance--he's playing a long game, after all--except then Arthur goes and asks to continue their conversation over coffee.

Not a date, Arthur reassures him, noting Eames' not quite masked surprise and dismay. Only a quick chat, he'd like to ask Eames' opinion on something in a less awkward location than the middle of a supermarket.

It sounds reasonable enough, intriguing even, and it's an opportunity Eames couldn't have dreamed of when he was planning the timeline over which he'd develop rapport with Arthur. Usually marks aren't so helpful as to ask one to continue spending time together.

And yet.

Despite Arthur's bland smile and vapid demeanor, there's something about his gaze which leaves Eames uneasy. Which makes no sense since Arthur's one of the least imposing men Eames has ever come across in his long, storied career of conning people but there's something—

"I can't vouch for how much my opinion will be worth, but I am always eager to offer it, with or without solicitation," Eames says, because passing on this opening with a mark would be insanity, not to mention possibly damage their fragile relationship.

"I'm very happy to hear that," Arthur says, low and calm, his voice oddly melodic, like a song Eames once heard but can't quite place.

* * * * *

"The thing of it is, hypnosis doesn't work on me," Eames says. "I know a certain subset of the population is particularly susceptible to it, but I'm afraid I do not number among them."

Arthur's rolling a coin across the table between his hands; it's a penny, dull and brown, nothing special. But every now and again, Eames catches a glint of reflected light out of the corner of his eye. "It's true. My methods don't work on everybody. Especially not on the discerning."

"I'm glad we're in agreement on that," Eames says, smiling at Arthur. He may have no interest in sleeping with Arthur (or any man, for that matter) but a bit of flirtation to grease the wheels never hurt the cart. "I was afraid you were going to try to argue otherwise."

"I don't like to argue." Arthur rolls the penny from his left hand to his right and back again, each time increasing the distance between the two. "I like to come to agreements, like you said."

"Yes, like I said." Eames nods before he realizes what he's saying. Odd that he repeated Arthur's words.

"I read a fascinating book on this very topic." Arthur's hands are nearly at the edges of their circular coffee shop table, coin losing speed as it travels. "It's about what makes you unique. Able to resist my usual work. I think you'd find it very illuminating."

"I'm sure I would," Eames says, watching the coin wobble ever so slightly before reaching Arthur's right palm. "What is it titled?"

"I can't remember off the top of my head." Arthur's hands now span the diameter of the table, the coin rolling with barely enough speed to make it without toppling. "I can lend it to you."

"Yes," Eames says absently, frowning as Arthur lifts his arms away from the table, coin rolling over the edge unhindered, about to start freefall—

* * * * *

The home Arthur drives Eames to isn't the one he lists as his address with the government, nor where he receives his mail. It's a palatial mansion in a somewhat remote location, barred by gates and a multitude of security systems. Eames discreetly observes while Arthur enters the keypad passcode before they step inside the building.

It's spacious and airy inside, decorated with subtly luxurious furnishings Eames wouldn't have expected from a boring man like Arthur. He leads Eames towards the library with a confident stride that strikes Eames as dissonant from the subdued persona he displayed less than half an hour ago in public.

And then Arthur stops.

There's a naked man blocking the door of the library, face blotchy and red with sobbing. He's pale, fair, and even through the off-putting veil of tears and desperation, Eames can see that he's strikingly handsome.

"Please," the man sinks to his knees and crawls toward Arthur. He doesn't seem to notice Eames. "Please don't send me away."

Arthur looks down at the man dispassionately. "You shouldn't be here. What did I tell you?"

"I heard what you said." The man presses his palms to his temples as if they ache. "I hear it. But I don't want to leave. Please."

"I know you don't." Arthur touches the man's hair, an intimate touch that makes clear what's happening (if the nudity and the weeping weren't enough). "It's time for you to go. Listen to my words."

The man begins to cry again, whimpering, "Please, please," repeatedly while uniformed guards appears from a back room to force him to his feet. Nobody pays any attention to Eames as the man is hustled away.

"This is why security is key," Arthur says, once everyone is gone except for he and Eames. "To prevent unauthorized movement in and out."

Eames agrees, though his mind is preoccupied with the question of why a man like that would be reduced to such a pathetic condition--over someone as wholly uninspiring as Arthur, no less. Perhaps wealth and fame are enough of a draw.

"Eames." Arthur puts a hand on Eames' shoulder, gaze clear and direct. "We are friends, aren't we?"

Eames realizes, with some surprise, that they are of a height. "Yes, of course. What else could we be otherwise?"

"Then you know that if there's anything you want, you can ask me, don't you?" Arthur's eyes bore into Eames. Eames shifts, but Arthur doesn't loosen his grip.

"I suppose that book you mentioned sounded interesting, but I'm not sure what else…" Eames swallows, disconcerted by Arthur's sudden intensity, that scene with the naked man, how the opulence surrounding them contrasts with Arthur's humble persona. 

Arthur releases Eames, the tension dissipating as he smiles. "Yes. Of course."

When Eames receives the book, it's entirely ordinary. A bit dusty and yellowed with age. There's no dust jacket, and no title printed on the front.

"You should read it and tell me what you think," Arthur says. 

"I look forward to it," Eames says, thumbing through the pages. A thought occurs to him. "How shall I reach you?"

"I'll call for you," Arthur says. "In three days' time."

His words echo in Eames' mind as he drives back to the short-term rental apartment he'd selected for this con. It's furnished cheaply, a poor comparison after being in Arthur's home so recently.

* * * * *

The book takes less than a day to read, the words racing before him. Every sentence reminds him of Arthur, of how close he is to being taken into Arthur's confidences, to learning his secrets. Eames already knows now, for instance, that he has finer tastes in private than he lets on, whether for objects or companions. The modesty and apparent humility are tools for manipulating others.

After he finishes reading, Eames begins to lay his plans for conversation with Arthur. Suggestions for activities they might do together (options include: gallery openings, VIP tables at nightclubs, box seats at sporting events). Topics that might bring them closer, emotionally, and closer to the knowledge Eames is truly interested in.

Occasionally, Eames' mind wanders back to that nameless man in Arthur's home. A jilted lover, clearly, one far gone enough to ignore all pretense of dignity. One willing to debase himself in hopes of another chance. Eames never would have suspected such power over paramours, and he resolves to add it to the list of topics to explore with Arthur in more detail. Eames has sex enough, but he wouldn't mind a beautiful woman or two waiting at home for him, eager to do his laundry, cook his meals, and suck his cock.

* * * * *

"Did you enjoy reading?" Arthur asks as he places the book back on the shelf, in the perfectly fitted gap left behind when he'd first removed it.

"Fascinating," Eames says, attention caught by the shine of Arthur's faceted cufflinks. Arthur's dressed differently today—not in his usual dismal clothing, but in a finely tailored suit, cut close to his surprisingly muscular body.

"I'm glad," Arthur says, and he does seem genuinely to be so. Eames smiles back reflexively. "I wonder: have you ever eaten a fresh peach off the tree before?"

Eames blinks, momentarily thrown by the shift in conversation. "I suppose I've eaten some from the store, but not directly from the tree, no."

"There's a garden in the back." 

It's a small grove of peach trees, impressively tall and leafy, heavily burdened with fist-sized peaches. The dappled sunlight plays flatteringly across Arthur's cheekbones, revealed now that he's slicked his hair back, curls no longer falling in his face.

Arthur plucks a peach, fragrant and perfectly formed, heavy for its size. When Eames bites into it, juice explodes across his lips and tongue, down the side of his mouth. It's sweet in a way he's never tasted before—almost too sweet, a hint of fermentation at the very edges of his taste buds.

Arthur picks another and offers it. "More?"

Eames nods, fingers sticky against Arthur's when he accepts it, but Arthur doesn't seem to mind. After he eats his third, it occurs to him that he was quite hungry; he'd skipped eating in favor of preparing to come to Arthur's house, thinking about what he might say. As Arthur continues to feed him nearly overripe peaches, Eames wonders vaguely how he guessed.

* * * * *

"It's getting dark," Arthur says, and Eames glances over at the window, startled, wondering when that happened. "You're welcome to stay over. Read whatever you want in the library, help yourself to more peaches."

Eames thinks he should be hungry. It's been hours since he ate solid food besides peaches, but he feels oddly sated. He also feels a bit drunk, which should be impossible. If he were to stand, he's fairly certain he'd be unsteady on his feet.

"I'm going to take a shower." Arthur stands and squeezes Eames' shoulder. "Stay."

Eames does stay, watching with a sleepy sense of contentment as Arthur walks away. There's a fire crackling in the fireplace (when was that lit? he doesn't remember) and he feels calm, peaceful.

He hears footsteps approaching, and turns his gaze to Arthur, clad only in a towel about his waist. Eames frowns; had he been staring into the flames for that long?

"It feels good, doesn't it?" Arthur says, tending the fire with a poker. "Warm, though."

"It is," Eames agrees. At some point he'd set his jacket aside on the arm of his chair. He undoes the top few buttons of his shirt because he's sweating.

"A man should be able to wear whatever he wants in his own home, don't you agree?" 

"I do." Eames hesitates for a moment before stripping down to his undershirt. He's sweating, after all, and Arthur is in far more casual state.

Arthur smiles as he sits down on the couch beside Eames. "You're more comfortable now."

"I am." Eames can see the fire reflected in Arthur's dark eyes.

Arthur studies Eames' face for a long, quiet moment. Eames wonders what he sees. "Would you like to go to sleep?"

Eames is escorted to a guest bedroom with a door connected to the master bedroom where Arthur sleeps. Arthur tells him to knock if he needs anything, and turns in for the evening.

Eames doesn't have his usual pajamas with him, so he undresses to his underwear and climbs under the sheets. He's still heated through from the fire, though, and kicks them off after a minute. There's not much to look at in the room and he feels hot all over.

He wraps a hand around his cock, considering. It's half-hard, though he's not sure why; he hasn't seen any women all day, hasn't thought about sex. Perhaps the peaches, he thinks. From the right angle, that cleft looks not unlike a well-formed arse. Minus the fuzz.

He watches the play of light through the curtains, an intricate dance of shadows and illumination on the wall. It reminds him of how Arthur had looked in that grove, sun lighting on his parted lips, a cupid's bow shape the envy of any girl.

Eames wouldn't mind a pretty girl's lips around his cock right now. Or sucking on his bollocks—more fuzzy peach imagery—and teasing with a finger. He's never had much interest in putting anything up there, but he must admit that during a blowjob a finger or two could be quite nice, a bit of added stimulation. The cherry on top, so to speak.

He's tried it by himself, a few times—what man hasn't? Thoroughly unpleasant business until he accidentally spilled lube on himself and was too lazy to find a towel to wipe it off. The lube changed things, it really did, and now he doesn't mind it. He's not flexible enough to get at whatever feels so bloody good when women do it to him, but circling the rim where it's sensitive, pressing in for a feeling of fullness—that can be rather enjoyable, too.

A small spurt of precome leaks from his cock, and Eames looks down, startled at how aroused he is. He coats his right index finger in it and spreads his legs, reaching back for a touch. Teasing, not penetrating. He forgets himself and moans, freezes, wondering if Arthur heard.

Eames isn't ashamed. Wanking is natural, Arthur is a grown man and men know other men does this. It's not a secret, but it's a courtesy to not force others to listen, to become somehow involved in what you're doing against their will. In Arthur's case, it probably wouldn't be against his will, with the way he looked at Eames. But it would certainly be against Eames', because he's not gay. Nothing against gayness, but he likes pussy. Always has, and always will.

More precome slides down Eames' cock, a steady trickle now. He usually stays relatively dry during a wank, gets off quick and fast without fuss. It must be the finger against the bum that's doing it. No other explanation.

Eames closes his eyes, imagining breasts and warm soft mouths and tight asses. There's precome trailing between his legs, down his crack, enough to cover his finger. It slips in, further than he intended, and he can't help but sigh with pleasure. As he strokes his cock faster and faster, all he can think as he comes is that he hopes Arthur won't hear.

* * * * *

"Sleep well?"

Eames snaps out of the bowl of Cheerios he'd been staring into. "Oh. Yes."

Truthfully, Eames spent the evening fielding bizarre dreams. A creeping dread he couldn't name, the swing of a pendulum, a familiar voice throughout. 

The most inconvenient part of it was, whenever he woke up (which was several times throughout the night), he found himself ferociously hard, such that he was dying to stroke himself immediately. By the fourth time, he was exhausted and oversensitive, desperate enough to seek relief that he abandoned his cock and concentrated purely on his prostate (he'd googled it on his phone at around three AM). The result, after much searching, had been a screaming orgasm that rattled his brain. 

"Nightmares?" Arthur asked, putting a sympathetic hand on Eames' elbow.

"Of a sort," Eames replies. "I apologize if I made any sort of racket which disturbed you."

"You were asleep." Arthur's fingers trail down Eames' forearm to his wrist, oddly comforting. "How could you have known?"

"I was," Eames says, as Arthur takes his half-eaten bowl away. Arthur's dressed again today, a different suit, hair slicked back. Eames isn’t sure why he doesn't show this side more frequently—sleek and deadly.

"Do you like to spar?" Arthur asks. "I pegged you as a boxer or a MMA guy."

"Yes," though Eames mostly spars reluctantly, as the only means to practice necessary self-defense skills. "I do."

* * * * *

Sparring with Arthur is exhilarating, exhausting, frustrating. Arthur strips to his boxers and Eames follows suit; he's not shy about his body. Without clothing, it's clear that Eames has the weight advantage, and what could a hypnotist know about fighting?

A great deal, apparently.

They circle each other on the mats in the center of Arthur's pristine, well-appointed home gym. There's an assortment of exercise equipment, along with an indoor Jacuzzi in the corner and a picture window overlooking an outdoor pool. 

Wind chimes tinkle gently in the window as Arthur sweeps in for another attack. Eames fends him off—barely, and can feel himself tiring. How long have they been at this? Long enough for them both to be sweat-soaked, slippery when Eames tackles Arthur to the ground.

Arthur's harder to pin than an eel, twisting out of Eames' grasp and reversing their positions. He holds Eames with merciless strength, ignoring Eames' attempts to distract him long enough to escape.

Eames swears and bucks his hips up against where Arthur's seated on top of him. It does nothing to shift Arthur, though it does bring attention to Eames' growing erection.

Eames tries to flip over and conceal it, but Arthur doesn't let him. Instead, Arthur tightens his grip on Eames' wrists and says, "Do you yield?"

"No," Eames says, continuing to resist. In the distance, he can hear the sound of the wind chimes again.

"We don't have to fight." Arthur leans forward against Eames' cock, and Eames releases an involuntary hiss. "You may surrender."

"No bloody thank you," Eames says, because that's not what he came here for. "I'm not gay. This doesn't mean anything."

"But it hurts, doesn't it?" Arthur's grip tightens again, nearly painful. "I can help you."

"I'm not interested in your help." Eames tears his gaze away from Arthur's, tipping his head back to stare at the ceiling, the window, the chimes reflecting the sunlight. Anything to avoid thinking about how much of their skin is pressed together, how thin the garments over their groins are.

"Very well." Arthur releases Eames entirely, rocking back abruptly. "I don't like to argue."

Eames lies flat on his back, trying to control his breathing and will his aching erection away. The front of his boxers is wet, clinging. The chimes flutter in the breeze. He wants to come.

"I'm going for a swim," Arthur says, standing. He pads to the door and steps outside. By the time he reaches the pool and dives in, Arthur's completely nude.

Eames focuses his attention away from Arthur's lithe, muscular body and sits up. He feels off-balance, light-headed. He aches.

He redresses gingerly and leaves the mansion. This isn't a honeypot con; he's not here to actually prostitute himself for Arthur's secrets. He contemplates aborting the job, calling it a wash and hightailing it out of town.

But he sank a lot of money and time into this already. It would be a shame to toss that away due to a wayward hard-on. This is salvageable. Given a few days to cool off, perhaps things can return to normal and they can resume talking about hypnosis.

* * * * *

Eames presents to Arthur a peace offering: courtside seats to a home game. Arthur accepts.

"Big fan?" Eames asks during a time out.

"The biggest. I don't get to see as many games as I'd like," Arthur replies. One of the players, having recognized him, jogs over to say hello and request a photo together. Arthur obliges.

"I love your work," the player says, eyes wide and glassy. "You changed my life."

They're invited to an after-party at one of the trendiest bars in the area. Seated in the VIP section, Arthur is surrounded by various basketball players, their girlfriends, wives, groupies. All stare at him in enraptured awe while Eames is shunted off to the side, bored and irritated.

Eames has made up his mind to leave, abandoning the evening for a total loss, when Arthur materializes at his elbow and murmurs, "Let's get out of here."

* * * * *

Eames drives Arthur home—he's not sure quite why, when Arthur could have called a limo or his personal driver—and Arthur says, "It's late. You should stay in the guest room."

There's a voice inside Eames' mind telling him to say no, but he can't remember why. He thinks: out of all those people vying for Arthur's attention, he chose me. I'm the one he wants.

"I'm in the mood for the hot tub," Arthur says as he sheds his jacket, unbuttons his shirt. "Let's go for a dip."

It's easy to say yes, easier now that Eames can't recall why he was upset earlier. Earlier in the night, earlier that week. He should refuse, he thinks, as Arthur helps him undo his trousers, helps him out of his suffocating clothing. But he doesn't know why.

Arthur brings beer to the Jacuzzi, Eames' favorite brand—he wonders how Arthur knew. Then Eames sinks into the hot water with a cold beer and his questions glide away.

"All those people claim you changed their lives," Eames says. He's seated next to Arthur. Every now and again, the movement of the water causes their knees to knock together.

"It's my life's work," Arthur replies, setting his drink down. Over his shoulder, the wind chimes glow in the moonlight.

"Is any of it real?" Eames asks, too open, too directly. He feels the alcohol hitting him harder than he expected; that isn't what he intended to ask.

"Is that what you're after?" Arthur drifts closer, expression difficult to read in the low light. 

Some part of Eames sends up an alarm through his hazy intoxication—the mark is suspicious, time to guide him away from such a dangerous topic. "I'm trying to make some changes, myself. It seems like you helped those people."

"Are you? What sort of changes?"

"I--" Eames had an answer prepared, but his head feels cloudy, thick. "I wanted to see if I could learn what you do and use it myself."

"I see." A smile spreads slowly across Arthur's face. "It can be hard to think in here."

"Yes, it can." Eames doesn't know why he told Arthur the truth.

"I can help you," Arthur says, voice a low, soothing counterpoint to the high twinkle of the wind chimes. "Would you like me to help you?"

"I…" Eames settles deeper into the tub. A hot jet pulses over his cock, bare in the water, and pulses further behind him.

"I can help you change your life." Arthur encourages Eames to move further into the jets, to face the edge of the tub, arms resting on the side to anchor him. "People fear change, but it doesn’t have to be painful. I can release you from that fear."

"How?" Eames pumps his hips softly in the water, the pressure over his cock and bollocks and arse distracting. He should be paying closer attention to what Arthur is saying, probably.

"You're tired." Arthur's deep, melodic voice whispers in Eames' ear, lips brushing against the lobe. "Tired of thinking, of planning, of wondering and waiting."

"I am," Eames agrees, before he knows what he's saying.

"I can set you free." A familiar, comforting promise. 

Eames' head rolls forward as a hand wraps around his cock. Combined with the jets, it feels incredible. "Yes."

The hand begins to move and Eames thinks, maybe he should put a halt to this, maybe he should say something besides a second, third, fourth exhaled yes. He should.

"There's nothing to be scared of," Arthur murmurs as the wind chimes move and something hard presses up against Eames' back. "You want this, don't you?"

Eames shudders when he feels something press inside, larger than a finger, larger than anything he's felt before. The pain of it twists with the pleasure surrounding his cock, confusing him. "Don't."

"I know you don't want me to stop." A hand slides up Eames' back, his neck, to card through his hair with a gentleness that further intertwines the pain and pleasure warring across Eames' body. "You don't, do you?"

What's inside Eames begins to move, thrusting forward against his prostate, making him throb with pleasure. He whimpers as it withdraws, and shakes as it pushes in again, another shock of ecstasy rolling through him. "Don't," he says again, not sure what he means anymore.

Arthur presses forward and Eames doesn't resist, doesn't know how to muffle the broken gasps that leave his lips with every thrust. He comes into the solicitous hand on his cock, keeps coming as his prostate is stimulated over and over without pause, until he's wrung out and exhausted. Still it continues.

"Do you want me to stop?" Arthur asks, not winded, not even breathing heavily.

"No. Yes." Eames screws his eyes up as his cock tries to come again, dry. "Please."

Arthur's fingers tighten in Eames' hair as the—thing—inside of Eames ceases to move. "You enjoyed that."

"Yes," Eames whispers as Arthur peels away.

"It felt good to say that, didn't it?"

All the tension in Eames' body leaves, replaced with glowing contentment, satiety. "Yes."

"Good," Arthur hums. The word soothes Eames. "Very good."

* * * * *

The next morning, Eames is snappish and resentful and angry. He refuses breakfast and storms out to his car.

He's stopped by Arthur slamming him to the ground, wrenching his arms behind his back.

"Get off me," Eames snarls as he tries to throw Arthur.

"You don't want that," Arthur says, and despite Eames' efforts to resist, that voice penetrates his mind, muddles everything. He can't think when Arthur speaks, can only hear the echoes of Arthur's words, over and over.

"I don't want—that," Eames hears himself say.

"Good," Arthur says, and Eames feels his resistance leaving. "You know I don't like to argue."

"You don't like to argue," Eames says, trying to remember why he would argue when Arthur doesn't like it.

"You feel warm." Arthur's hands are moving through Eames' hair, now, across his body as Eames' sprawls across the ground. "That can make it difficult to focus."

"I do feel warm." Eames rests his cheek on the cool ground. "Difficult to focus."

"That's why I'm here," Arthur says as Eames feels something hard press against him, push inside him. "Would you like my help?"

"Yes." Eames' eyes flutter shut as he's filled. "Yes, help me."

"When I'm inside you, you don't need to think," Arthur says as he—his cock, that's his cock inside Eames—begins to move. "Isn't that a relief?"

"A relief," Eames sighs as his blood begins to hum.

"No more scheming or plotting or planning." Arthur spreads Eames' legs further, tilts his hips up. "No more worrying about where you are or should be."

"No more." The other voices in Eames' head, urging caution or shouting in fear, go quiet. All that's left is Arthur.

Eames comes with Arthur inside him, an orgasm like none he's ever had before. It's a peak that Arthur pushes higher and higher, with every twist of his hips and every whispered word. Eames feels full inside, woozy and surfeited.

Afterwards, Arthur fetches a washcloth and wipes himself down.

"Next time you'll know how to do this for me, too," Arthur says, palm heavy on the back of Eames' neck.

"I'll know how." Eames leans into the touch.

"Don't you feel better?" Arthur asks. "All I ask is that you do as I say."

* * * * *

Eames wakes up in Arthur's bed. He doesn't know how he got there, but that fact doesn't trouble him. It might have, once, but he can't imagine a reason why it should now. He rubs his cheek against the silky-soft pillowcase and wonders where Arthur is. Wonders if he'll be coming back soon.

* * * * *

Eames finds himself on his back with his legs in the air, Arthur standing over him. Considering.

"I need—" Eames doesn't know how to finish that sentence because he's hard, feels like he's been hard and waiting forever. He can't be left alone like this. It can't be healthy.

"Yes?" Arthur says, unmoving.

Eames swallows and looks away. "Don't—I don't—"

"Tell me."

"Don't make me say it," Eames whispers, barely a breath as he closes his eyes. This isn't who he is. The words on his lips aren't his.

"Very well." Eames hears the rustle of fabric as Arthur begins to walk away and his heart seizes. "I can't give you what you need if you won't tell me."

"Please, I need you," Eames chokes out, desperate, because Arthur can't leave him like this. He can't.

"This is what you need?" Arthur approaches again, unzipping his trousers and pulling out his cock.

Eames begins to salivate at the sight of it: thick and red and gorgeous. "Yes."

"Yes, what?"

"Please, I need your cock," Eames says, feeling like he can't wait another second, aching. "Please help me."

"Was that so bad?" Arthur asks as he pushes in, chasing away the fear, anxiety, emptiness. "Why do you continue to resist me when all I want is what's best for you?"

"I don't—I don't know." Eames moans as Arthur bottoms out inside him and doesn't move. He aches for more, why isn't Arthur—

"You're being stubborn, my lovely creature," Arthur coos, cupping Eames' jaw and running his thumb back and forth across Eames' closed lips. "When will you accept that everything I do is to make you happy?"

"I—" Eames opens his mouth to speak and Arthur's thumb slips in. Eames attempts to reject it, but Arthur's eyes darken.

"Are you trying to make me angry?" Arthur withdraws his finger and cock. Eames gasps, bereft.

"No," Eames says, terrified that Arthur is going to abandon him like this. "No, I don't understand what you're doing."

Arthur's eyes search Eames' and soften, after a moment. "You haven't done this before. I keep forgetting, with a mouth like yours."

Eames exhales in relief as Arthur slips inside him again, even accepts Arthur's thumb between his lips without protest.

"This feels good, doesn't it?" Arthur punctuates his question with a small thrust of his cock and Eames nods. "You were made to take my cock. Your tight round ass and your cocksucking lips."

Eames' eyes widen, but he makes no noise of dismay, afraid Arthur might pull away again. 

Arthur smiles, and something eases in Eames' gut, floods him with relief. "Excellent. You're learning."

Arthur rewards Eames, fucks him in long, rolling thrusts that make Eames' toes curl and legs tense, awash in pleasure. He orgasms, twice, with Arthur's fingers (first two, then three) jammed in his mouth and finds that he doesn't mind it. Likes it, especially when Arthur caresses him fondly.

Eames sighs when Arthur leaves to go take a phone call. Nothing's ever felt this good. Nothing.

* * * * *

The next few days—or weeks?—are a blur for Eames. He loses track of time passing, moving from moment to moment, place to place, as if in a dream. One second he's lying in bed, jerking off, wondering where Arthur is, and the next he's bent over a table, waiting for Arthur to finally, finally enter him.

The one thing Eames can mostly keep in order is his training. He spends most of his days (he thinks?) in the gym, exercising and swimming and waiting. He hears Arthur call to him and goes.

"I couldn't believe my luck, the day we met," Arthur says as he traces the line of Eames' mouth. Eames stares up at him and parts his lips, sucking gratefully at the fingertip Arthur gives him. "Beautiful. Born to ride my cock."

"I love it," Eames says, quietly thrilled by Arthur's words, his affection. 

"I know." Arthur smiles as Eames takes more fingers into his mouth, licks and sucks them with ardor. "You're getting so good at this."

Eames closes his eyes and redoubles his efforts. At first, he'd been eager for a reward as crass as climax. He'd spread his legs, bend over, and slick himself in pursuit of the dizzying pleasure only Arthur could provide. He learned how to move with Arthur, how to roll his own hips, how to ride Arthur until they both shouted.

But as time passes, what Eames begins to live for is the afterglow. Arthur's lavish praise and warm approval silence the hunger inside Eames, the nameless need. Through obedience, Eames can live a perfect life without sorrow or loneliness or suffering. All he has to do is listen and submit.

* * * * *

Eames eats better, now, than he has in his entire life. Fresh fruits and vegetables delivered to the house every other day, professional staff who prepare meals and teach him how to cook them, too. It's something to do while Arthur's at work.

Arthur comments on this as he eats dinner, glancing down at where Eames sits between his legs, worshipping Arthur's cock. "You do learn quickly, don't you? I don't think I've ever had anyone as intelligent as you."

They'd fought, earlier, because Arthur will be on tour for weeks. Eames hates it when he's left alone for that long, wilts in the empty house without Arthur to care for, had begged to accompany him. Arthur refused, irritated, but now he seems more thoughtful as he touches Eames' hair. "Perhaps a playmate."

Eames hums in response, not really listening. He fondles Arthur's bollocks with his free hands. He wants to reach down and touch his own aching erection, but he doesn't want to make a mess all over Arthur's shoes. Sometimes Arthur likes it when Eames strokes himself off with Arthur's cock in his mouth, likes to be shown how much Eames craves it. It all depends on Arthur's mood, how pliant and eager he wants Eames to be, how aggressive and forceful. It doesn't matter to Eames; he revels in it all.

* * * * *

Arthur goes on tour. When he returns, after he's done fucking Eames in the foyer, Eames comes back to life and shows his gratitude properly.

He warms Arthur's cock while he's busy with boring work calls, leans into Arthur's absentminded petting. He sucks Arthur's bollocks, wakes him in the morning with that so Arthur can get hard enough for Eames to ride and not accidentally come in Eames' mouth. Eames learns to rim Arthur, to finger him and fuck him just the way he likes when he commands it. 

Eames' joy at Arthur's return can't even be marred by the evenings away, late nights that stretch into mornings when Arthur returns home smelling like someone else. Eames says nothing as he twines his arms around Arthur's neck and kisses him jealously, greedily. He works harder to please as the haunting memory of a man, naked and weeping, floats to mind. He won't be so easily discarded. He won't.

* * * * *

Eames is napping by the pool when he hears an unfamiliar male voice. He opens his eyes to an elegantly dressed man with absurdly chiseled features staring at him in horror.

"Arthur," the man says, "I thought we were—I thought we had—"

Arthur hushes him with a word, a hand on the small of his back. "We do. Which is why I wanted you to meet Eames. Eames, this is Robert."

Eames sits up, a deliberate flex of muscles, and savors Arthur's gaze across his nude body. Robert looks, too, but Eames waits and watches Arthur.

"Isn't he gorgeous?" Arthur murmurs in Robert's ear, urging him closer. "Would you like to touch?"

Eames begins to understand. He recalls, vaguely, that he's never been attracted to men, but it doesn't matter. Arthur wants this; Arthur's changed his life. 

"Of course you do," Eames purrs as he takes Robert's hand and places it on his own chest. Robert inhales shakily as his fingertips skate across Eames' pectorals, his nipples, his abdomen.

"Would you like a taste?" Arthur asks, and Robert nods, sliding to his knees in front of Eames' soft cock.

Eames shudders at the first touch of Robert's tongue. Arthur's never done this for Eames, never shown any interest; it's the first time a man's mouth has ever touched Eames' dick.

"Good," Arthur says, one hand in Robert's hair. The other, he uses to cup Eames' cheek. "You want this, don't you?"

Eames leans into Arthur's touch, feels himself begin to harden under Arthur's gaze. He does want this. He wants Robert, he wants Arthur, he wants any other man Arthur might present him to as a hole to fuck—

"Yes," Eames says, shivering with pleasure. Beneath him, Robert moans, but Eames' focus doesn't swerve from Arthur.

After all, Eames' life's work is to do everything Arthur asks.

fin

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Inception Bingo. The prompt: Sex under the influence.
> 
> This story (along with the rest of my work) is a choose not to warn space


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